


Remember me

by KelticBanshee



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-27
Updated: 2009-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:19:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelticBanshee/pseuds/KelticBanshee





	1. Reborn

"Action has been taken." The voice coming from the tank is eerie and ominous. A high pitched whirring noise fills the room. Something hits him square in the chest, knocking the air out of him. A shock wave. He barely registers the sounds of Thames House going into lockdown.

He falls down to the floor, expecting the sharp bite of pain as he hits the tiles, but instead finds himself in a warm embrace, the worse of the fall taken by the body underneath him. Jack. His brain seems to be shutting down. Images flash through his head. Is he dying? Strong arms close around him. He forces his eyes to open. Whispers the words he never thought he's say again.

"I love you." He can't keep his eyes focused. Can't keep them open. Can't think straight. Can't move. Can barely breath. Time freezes. It's dark. It's cold. It's empty. Where is he?

Steps clattering on the floor vibrate through his body. Why can't he hear them? A voice rings through the cotton wool that fills his mind. A woman's voice, calling out names he doesn't recognize.

"... Need you, Jack, I can't do this alone..."

Someone shakes him, feebly. Why can't he move?

"Who are you?" A different voice. A man's. Soft. Scared. Strong.

"Jack! … remember me?"

"Who are you?" Something else in the voice. Panic. "... you doing?"

"... I'm sorry..." A loud bang rings in the empty room. A gun shot. Silence. A painful gasp. The woman babbles away, nervous yet relieved. He barely registers snatches.

"... Didn't know what to do... Everybody in the building... Medical experts are on the way... Get out of here while we can..."

A hand on his cheek. Big, rough. A man's.

"... Take him with us..."

"... Needs medical attention..."

"... I need him..."

Lips press briefly against his, and it feels familiar, and right.

"Ianto." The voice, soft and deep and intimate, stirs something deep inside him. He wants to scream for them not to leave him alone, even if he doesn't know who they are. He's awake, he's in here somewhere.

"Jack, we've got to go!"

Darkness falls over him again.

He is lying somewhere soft when he wakes up again. Rough fabric pillows his face. Voices nearby. He strains his ears, but only catches snatches.

"... If it's not, we'll find it." A woman, all authority and coldness.

"For what?" The man he heard earlier. Confused. Uncertain.

"... Wavelength, and that gotta be the key to fighting back..."

"... There's nothing you can do..." Another man, old broken voice. "Forty years, and never broke them."

Nothing makes sense. Fight back what, or who? What is he doing here, amidst people who are, apparently, caught in the middle of a battle for survival?

"... think, Captain?"

"Let's get to work ... Welcome back." He freezes for a moment. Those words, that voice, sound eerily familiar, even if he can't remember where, or when, he heard it before.

"... Torchwood years ago. There's nothing." Torchwood? His heart jumps. Images flash through his mind, too fast to capture any detail, or face, or voice.

Opening his eyes, he sits on the camp bed he's been lying on. His head spins as he looks around, trying to take in everything around him: a woman in black uniform, probably the owner of the first voice he heard when he came round; an older man, standing side by side with someone who can only be the Captain. Of what, he can't tell from the half uniform. Another woman, dark haired, and a striking resemblance to the Captain. A sister, maybe? Computer equipment everywhere, cables all over the floor of what looks like a disused warehouse. It looks like the set-up has been thrown together quickly and carelessly.

"You are awake!" A young woman, a nervous smile on her face, approaches him. He's seen her before. She sits on the bed beside him. "How are you feeling?" He ponders for a second, wondering. Who is she? What should he tell her?

"What's going on?"

"The usual, saving the world." Her smile tenses. "Not much for us to do; Agent Johnson seems to believe that the great Captain Harkness can sort it all out by himself."

"And you don't?" He regrets the question before the words have left his mouth; she looks hurt.

"Of course I do!" She looks away, regaining her hold on his emotions. Not a very strong one, it would seem. "Jack knows what he is doing. I hope." An image hits him. Offering her a cup of coffee. He lets out a breath he hasn't realized has been holding. If he's caught in the middle of a war, at least he's on the right side. Or is he?

Without another word, she stands up and makes her way towards the group of people gathered around one of the terminals. He watches her walk away, a hand tugging at the collar of his shirt. Shirt? What on Earth is he doing wearing a shirt and tie? He looks down, dreading what he'll find. A _waistcoat_? Pinstripes? Shoes? He rolls his eyes.

"... We have no way of transmitting." Captain Harkness seems to be the centre of all the activity in the warehouse, running from screen to screen, hitting a few keys here and there. There is a tension in the air. Life of death situation. Whose, he hasn't got the faintest idea; for all the knows, the fate of the whole planet could be at stake. And he is caught in the middle of it.

"Of course you have." The smile on the old man's face gives him the creeps. He stands up, still a bit light-headed, suddenly aware of his teeth worrying his bottom lip. Swallowing hard, he tries to keep a straight face.

"Shut up!" So much determination trapped in the Captain's voice... It can't be easy for him, having so many eyes on him while he tries to... well, as the young woman put it, save the world, as usual. Where do all this certainties come from? He can't remember any of this people, other than the brief flash he had of the brunette earlier, and he can't even put a name to her. Gwyneth? Wyn? No, not quite. "... Something else."

The woman in uniform must be an officer: the way she is demanding answers right now speaks of someone used to being in charge. Used to being listened to, not ignored. Captain Harkness – Jack... it feels... right, calling him Jack – argues with her. Voices raise. Then, silence.

"We need a child." The old man is smiling, as if he found all of this an entertaining show. "Centre of resonance. That child is gonna fry."

"No. Dad. No. Tell them no!" Dad? He doesn't look old enough to be her father... There's an air of panic about her when she looks at Jack, who is staring at him now, desperate, trapped between a rock and a hard place.

"One child or millions." The officer again. Time seems to slow as he watches in horror the dilemma closing around Captain Harkness. On one side of him, the old man and the officer, struggling to justify the unjustifiable, all for the greater good. Collateral damage. Acceptable losses. On the other, his daughter, and the young woman who talked to him earlier, pleading with him, tears in their eyes and their voices.

And in the middle of that chaos, the man who is expected to make the decision. The man who is expected to sacrifice the life of a child to save millions. And where they are going to find a child, in a military installation like this, which seems to be in the middle of nowhere, is beyond him. Blue eyes on him. Pleading for something. Help? What can he do, not even knowing what is going on? He couldn't look away even if he tried. Something stirs deep inside him, like a memory at the back of his head struggling to come forward but not quite making it.

Jack's daughter holds on to him, almost begging for mercy. The young woman raises her voice, demanding answers even _he_ knows Jack doesn't have right now.

"... Running out of time... Captain. " How can anybody put a man in a position to make such a choice? He can _see_ something breaking as Jack nods. His daughter runs away, shouting. Realization hits him: 'a child', in this facility, probably means _her_ child, although he's got no idea how they both came to be here.

"Alice!" The young woman calls after her.

Chaos ensues. A young boy, ten or eleven, is brought in and put on the platform in the centre of the room. The door is locked, keeping his mother outside. The old man takes a few steps away, eyes darting from the child to the Captain and back. The officer seems nervous, as if, despite everything, she didn't like the idea any more than Alice. The young woman is now shouting, trying her best to control the tremor in her voice, the nausea that seems to be rising from her stomach with every word.

"You can't do this, Jack!" Of course he can't. It's his own flesh and blood he's about to use as a tool to save the world. But he'll have to. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one, and all that philosophy bollocks that sounds so good in theory but hits you square over the head when it needs to be put in practice. Slowly, he takes a few steps towards the computer bank. Jack's eyes follow him, then return to the boy.

Taking a deep breath, Jack starts pressing keys. The child – Steven, Alice is shouting from outside the room, as she hits the dirty glass on the door – starts screaming, a high-pitched noise that sets his hair on ends. The young woman gapes at Jack, disbelief so obvious in her face he feels the urge to explain to her that sometimes decisions are not easy.

"Take her out." The coldness in his own voice doesn't surprise him as much as the fact that two of the soldiers approach her, their intent clear. She looks at him, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Ianto, you can't let him do it!" She's desperate now, as she's being escorted out. "Talk to him, Ianto, he will listen to you!" Why would he? What makes him so different that Captain Jack Harkness, who just proved capable of harsh decisions when needed, would listen to him? "Don't let him..." As the door closes behind her, she and Alice hold on to each other.

Jack keeps his eyes on Steven. As if he were _forcing_ himself to watch the consequences of the choice he really couldn't avoid. The old man is the first one to look away, as if he couldn't bear to see what he so adamantly advocated as the only option. The officer even sheds a tear or two at the tragedy. He looks from the child to the Captain; somehow, deep inside, he _knows_ this is what needs to be done, but it still goes against everything he holds dear. Or, at least, against everything he _remembers_ holding dear.

When Jack catches his eye, he can't look away again. He watches, examining the emotions playing in his face. Resignation. Self-loathing. Pain. Sadness. Loss. Loneliness. So much he recognizes, he understands. A silent tear rolls down Jack's cheek. Before he knows it, he's patting Jack's shoulder, a silent gesture in the pandemonium surrounding them. The familiarity with which one of Jack's hands traps his nearly knocks the air out him.

He's barely had time to register that when the boy collapses on the platform. The questions – why it all feels so familiar, so right; what exactly is going on; why his heart is jumping around like that right now; why everybody seems to think Jack Harkness can save the world on his own; what the hell the world needs saving from – are filed away neatly, and will be dealt with when possible. The door slams open and Alice runs to the boy. The young woman walks in behind her, a murderous look on her face as she approaches Jack.

"How could you? Your own grandson, how could you?" She's barely holding back the tears.

"Gwen..." The name! Of course! Gwen. Coffee, cream, two sugars. He shakes his head. "What else could I do? Tell me!" Jack's voice is so full of pain he can't understand how anybody could question him like that right now.

"There must be something else you could have done!" On the platform, Alice wails, cradling the lifeless body of her son. When she looks at him, he can barely hold her gaze.

"What, Gwen?" She falls silent. Then, quick as lightning, slaps Jack, turns around and leaves the room. Jack brings a hand to his cheek and looks at him, eyes so empty of anything but pain that it hurts to watch. But there's nothing he can do, nothing he can offer to make it easier. No amount of tea would help now, despite his mother's old saying about a cuppa always being the answer to all problems. "Are you going to walk out on me as well?" He shakes his head. When Jack lets go of his hand, it feels suddenly too cold.

Page 4 of 4


	2. Reborn

After the chaos, Ianto nearly welcomes the silence that settles in the warehouse. At the officer's discreet sign, two men in uniform take Steven's body away. Alice wraps her jacket around her, as if to keep the cold away, and follows them. Jack takes a couple of steps towards her, but the look she shoots him – empty, angry, blaming – stops him on his tracks.

"What would like us to do with Mr Dekker, Agent Johnson?" The officer shakes his head. The soldier nods, and takes the old man away. He's not sure he wants to know what she just authorized. His eyes are still on Jack, immobile, as if frozen where he stands. He wants to _do_ something, but what? And why?

"She'll come around, Captain." Johnson moves towards Jack, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. "You just saved every child on the planet. She'll see that, eventually." Jack lets out a sigh, and Ianto can nearly hear something breaking inside him as he turns around and faces her.

"She's her mother's daughter, Agent. She won't come around." A pause, as Jack brings up a tired smile. "And I can't blame her for it." There it is again, that... acceptance, even resignation, when people walk away from him. Where does it come from? "Now, if you could lend us a vehicle, we have a long drive back to Cardiff." Cardiff? Images flash through his head again. Cardiff sounds like home. "Gwen and Rhys may also need transport. I doubt she wants to sit in a car with me right now."

Without much protest, she gets one of her men to hand over a set of keys, still insisting that it would be best if they had someone drive them. Jack flatly refuses, slipping them in the pocket of the RAF greatcoat he's picked up from a chair. Someone hands him a suit jacket, and he puts it on before he realizes what he's doing. It feels... uncomfortably familiar, to be so overdressed in the middle of all this chaos.

He has to pick up his pace to keep up with Jack the moment the soldier that escorted them out leaves them. He wants to call after him, but what can he say? How can he explain that he can't remember him, or how he came to be here, or what he's been doing with his life in the last few years? Sure, there are snatches, here and there. London, Cardiff. But, no real information. What did he do? Where did he work? Taking a deep breath, he forces himself not to panic. It's not going to help right now.

He is brought back to reality when he bumps into Jack, just standing there, a hand on the roof of the oversized vehicle. Before he can even take a step back, Jack turns around and... crashes. Hands fist on his jacket, crumpling the material. Jack pulls him closer, rests his head rests on his shoulder, and he can feel more than hear the sobs, the trembling, the pain.

"Why?" A single word, repeated over and over again in a voice so broken it hurts him. He wants to say something, anything, even though he has no idea why he cares so much for this man. A man who just killed a child. To save millions, apparently, but killed a child. Maybe he cares because Jack seems capable of taking the harshest decisions and doing the most terrible things despite knowing the consequences will hit him like this.

It's only when Jack seems to calm down a bit that he realizes he's got his arms around him, one hand gently patting a shoulder, the other one holding Jack's head. Slowly, Jack's hands relax, let go of his jacket and slide down, settling on his waist, under his jacket, and there is something oddly familiar about the way the fingers dig onto his skin. He swallows the knot on his throat, despite his tie being dangerously close to choking him right now, and curses under his breath.

"There was nothing else I could do..." He nods. Of course there wasn't. He wouldn't have done it if there had been other options. Why can't he get himself to say anything? What could he say that would help, anyway? He wants to scream he doesn't have the slightest clue about who he is, or why he is here, but he doesn't; he's too busy shivering when Jack's lips barely ghost on his neck. As if his body remembered something he doesn't. The idea of stepping away doesn't even enter his mind until after Jack pats his back, stands up again and, blinking away the tears, brings the keys out of his pocket.

"Would you like me to drive?" The question leaves his mouth before he realizes he has no idea exactly where they are, or where they are going. Jack shakes his head and opens his mouth. For a second, Ianto is certain he is about to say he is okay, he can manage, or some other similar lie. Then Jack closes his mouth again, as if he had had second thoughts about what to say.

He's lost in thought by the time the vehicle leaves the industrial estate. Questions pop in his head, without any kind of order. What is Torchwood? Who is he? Why does Jack trust him so much as to allow him to see his moments of defeat? What exactly has been going on? Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jack, one hand on the wheel, head leaning on the other, elbow resting on the door. He wants to ask, but the silence feels too comfortable to break it just yet.

"So... would now be a good time to tell you I can't remember you?" Jack looks at him, a shocked expression in his face.

"You what?" Jack brakes in a way that makes him wince – that cannot be good for the tyres. Luckily, at this time of the night there's not much traffic in the motorway.

"I... can't remember you. I have no idea what is going on, what just happened back in that warehouse, or how I came to be there." He shrugs and loosens his tie a little.

"What is the last thing you remember?" There's concern in Jack's voice, even a bit of panic, as he stops the car in the hard shoulder. As if this had happened before.

"It's... complicated. I remember the woman that slapped you. Gwen. Sort of." He looks at his feet, unable of holding Jack's worried gaze. "I remember bringing her coffee. I remember shopping in Cardiff. Picking up dry-cleaning, buying stationary. I know I like pepperoni pizza and can't stand instant coffee. But... I can't remember where I live, or what I do for a living. I don't even know if I have family there."

"Gwen mentioned something had happened to everybody at Thames house, but I thought you... I mean, nothing seemed wrong, I though you..." When he looks up, Jack's leaning on the head rest, looking at the roof of the car, biting his lips. "I'm sorry, Ianto. I should have..."

"You had other things in your mind." He tries to smile. Saving the world must always come first, of that he is certain.

"So you don't remember Torchwood. Not even Torchwood One?" He shakes his head. "And you have forgotten almost everybody?" He nods. Jack sighs. For a moment, Jack looks lost, even more than he did in the warehouse, when faced with decisions no man should ever be. When he looks at him again, there's so much pain in those eyes he's not entirely sure how Jack manages to keep the smile on his lips. "Let's get you home. We'll sort this out. I promise."

Taking a deep breath, Jack starts the car again, and drives into the night. Somehow, Ianto believes that promise.

As the SUV screeches to a halt, the sudden stop jerks him out of the thoughts that have been spinning in his head since he told Jack about his memory loss. Without the noise of the engine, the silence becomes oppressive. He looks around: it's a quiet street, Victorian terraced houses on both sides, with carefully tended gardens and a general well-kept look. It seems oddly familiar, yet he feels oddly out of place here. Cathays, Cardiff.

"Come on. Home for you, Mr. Jones." Jack unbuckles his seat belt and jumps out of the car. Slowly, he follows him up the path to the carefully varnished wooden door. The kicked-in, carefully varnished wooden door. Something inside him cringes. "I'm afraid Johnson and her men may have paid you a visit a few days ago." Jack leans down and undoes his boots, taking them off before stepping in and leaving them on a shoe rack. He turns around as he switches on the light, pointing at his shoes. "I'd take those off if I were you. It annoys you when people walk on your carpet."

Jack smiles, a tired smile that makes the weirdness of the last day vanish a little. He knows, rationally, that he should be freaked out by all this. Waking up not knowing where he was. Trying to remember how he had gotten there in the first place, and finding more gaps than memories. Yet he isn't, and he can't understand why.

"Coming in?" Jack's voice is soft and carefree; he can't even begin to imagine how he manages that, after the events of the day. Shaking his head, he takes off his own shoes and places them by Jack's boots. The sight is oddly comforting. He finds that feeling slightly unsettling, knowing something is _right_ , even if he can't remember _why_.

"Shouldn't I be the one inviting you in?" He gives Jack a tired smile. Do they normally tease each other like this, as if they were children with nothing to worry about? He closes the door behind him as best as he can, making a mental note to have it repaired in the morning, and makes his way down the hall. The place feels... familiar. Like a house he knows but hasn't visited in a long time.

"Oh God." He stops on his tracks when he walks into the living room. "Tell me this is not how my house normally looks like." Knocked furniture, books, DVDs and cushions strewn everywhere. Jack comes up beside him, having lost his coat somewhere.

"Ah, so, now I can come in?" No anger, just good humoured banter. Where does the man find the strength for that after everything that has happened? "No, this is not how your place normally looks." With a tired sigh, he starts picking things, making neat piles, trying to free up space to upright shelves. "Yes, that's more how you keep it." He pauses for a second and turns around to face Jack.

"Are you going to stand there and watch me clean all night?" It comes out a bit sharper than he intends, but he's had a hell of a day, all he wants right now is to fall in his bed, hide his head under the covers, and wake up in the morning to find it was all a nightmare.

"I could always leave, if you want me to." He pauses for a second, halfway through bringing one of the bookcases back to its place.

"Where would you go?" He pushes the bookcase a bit more, getting it to stand, and starts placing books on it. Jack walks to the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the front room and leans on it, eyes following his every move.

"Don't know. Got not Hub to go back to, but I'd find somewhere." He swallows, hand mechanically returning more books to the shelves. Something inside him is screaming, shouting not to let Jack out of his sight tonight, because he shouldn't be alone. Because neither of them should have to face their demons alone tonight.

"No need to." Barely a whisper. Jack raises an eyebrow. He takes a deep breath and holds his gaze. "Besides, I really could do with a hand in all this chaos." And some answers, as well. If he can get himself to ask the questions.

Without a word, Jack heads for the other corner of the room, and starts clearing up. For a while, they both work in silence. His head is spinning. It takes nearly an hour before the sofa is finally clear and he can collapse onto it, taking off his tie and leaving it on the table. Putting down two bottles of beer he's just taken out from the fridge, Jack sits beside him.

"Why do I trust you?" He's not looking at Jack, he can't. He knows the questions he wants to ask will probably hurt, and he can't get himself to watch. "I don't know you, I don't remember ever meeting you, yet I _trust_ you. You killed your own grandson, in front of me. Yet I believe you, when you say there was no other way." He swallows nervously. "Why?" It takes a lot of determination to turn his head towards Jack. Frozen, with his beer halfway between the table and his lips, Jack looks at his feet.

"We have worked together for... three years." A sigh, a tired, exhausted sigh. "We are... were... Torchwood. What you've seen today, saving the world regardless of the price to pay... that's what we do." Jack takes a sip, and leans back on the sofa. "We catch aliens. Most of the time, we sweep everything under the carpet and nobody notices."

"And sometimes, like today, it explodes right under your... our... noses?" Jack grimaces, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Suppose you could say that." Silence, again. That rare silence that feels comfortable. Putting his beer down, he undoes his waistcoat and drapes it over the back of the sofa, still wondering why on earth he's so overdressed. If he really catches aliens for a living, it surely would make more sense to wear practical clothes to work.

"So, that's it?" Jack nods. "We work together, and that's enough for me to trust you even when I don't even know who you are?" There's got to be something else. Jack sighs, and looks at him. He swallows, not entirely sure why, and takes a nervous sip of his beer.

"We are partners."

Page 4 of 4


	3. Rediscovery

He nearly drops his bottle at the words. He's pretty sure Jack doesn't mean bridge partners. Something in his eyes, in his voice, in the way he's still staring at him, not even blinking.

"In what way?" The words barely come out. Jack gives him a tired smile, as if this were some kind of private joke he is not getting.

"Just about any you can think of." Jack lifts a hand towards him, freezes, and lets it drop on the sofa, between them. "And then some." So much pain in that voice.

"Oh." He raises his eyebrows, brain going over everything that happened since he woke up. Gwen's claims that he could convince Jack where she couldn't. Jack breaking down and seeking refuge from the world in his arms. The way Jack stared at him as he made the terrible decision.

"Or at least we were, before you lost your memories." He swallows nervously, head spinning, and looks away. He doesn't know this man, yet he has no doubt he is telling the truth. Something stirs deep inside him again, the same certainty that this is right, even if it makes no sense in his head. And it scares him.

Taking a deep breath that doesn't help him calm down, he forces himself to look at Jack again. The pain in those eyes hits him hard, and the need to do _something_ to ease it takes over, and everything just becomes too much. Leaving his beer on the table, he gets up and walks out of the room, feeling more than finding his way to the bedroom. Why is he gasping for air? He closes the door behind him and leans on it. What is he running from? His knees give in under him as he slides down to the floor.

Deep breaths. Slow, calming, deep breaths. He pushes away the uneasy feeling that Jack is standing on the other side of the door, wondering. He has no idea how long he's been sitting there by the time he finally gets back on his feet and turns the light on. He curses at the sight of the mess, even if it is not as bad as the living room, and starts picking clothes from the floor and throwing them in the laundry basket in the bathroom.

His head is still spinning when he drops the basket back in its place. The room doesn't look much better, but it'll take more than picking a few things things up from the floor to tidy it up. He runs a hand through his hair; the whole world seems to come crashing over him. With a sigh, he runs the shower, the mist and heat building up strangely relaxing as he unbuttons his shirt and places his cuffs by the sink. His shirt, underwear and socks join the rest of the laundry; his trousers will need to dry-cleaning.

The first jet of water on his skin takes the world off his shoulders. He just stands there, letting the water wash away dirt, tiredness and worries all the same, giving his aching body a chance to relax and recover from events of the last day... and everything before that he can't remember. He tries not to think and concentrates on the collection of shampoos and shower gels on the small shelf in the corner. Someone else must live here – he's pretty sure he wouldn't need that many products.

It's easy to forget the strangeness of the last hours as water pelts on his head and muffles the sounds of the world outside, creating an abstract rhythm that not even his hands and the sweet smell of shampoo can compete with. It's easy to keep the thoughts at bay as he picks one of the shower gels – smells minty – and lets out a satisfied sigh as he washes and rinses thoroughly. He can't stay in the shower forever – sooner or later he'll have to step out and face the chaos. Swallowing hard, he cuts the water, and leans his forehead on the still warm tiles around him, reaching blindly behind him for a towel.

Stepping out of the shower, he dries himself and wraps the towel around his waist. He stops on his tracks when his eyes fall on the basin again. Two toothbrushes. Definitely someone else lives here. With shaky hands, he opens the cabinet on the wall. Two different types of razors. Shaving gel. Paracetamol, and some other pills with a name too long to pronounce and a much more helpful "painkillers" written in neat, old-fashioned handwriting. If there had been any doubt in his mind about Jack's claim that they were partners, it wouldn't have lasted long.

He freezes when he hears the knock on the door. Grabbing his trousers and the cufflinks, he steps back into the room and takes yet another deep breath he knows won't calm him down, but may at least help him focus.

"Come in." His voice sounds more confident than he feels. He doesn't turn around as the door opens, and Jack steps in, the wooden floor creaking under his feet. Without a word, he checks the pockets before putting the trousers on a chair, and leaves the cuffs atop the chest of drawers where another five or six pairs are sitting, along with the mobile he just fished from the front pocket. He starts rummaging through the wardrobe, trying no to think too much about the obvious lack of anything _but_ suits in it.

"What are you looking for?" Jack is leaning on the wall now, arms crossed in front of him, looking a bit like a lost child, despite the smile and the soft voice. There is something else in that look, something he can't quite put his finger on. Images flash in his head again, too fast to catch anything. The feeling remains, deep inside, that this is right – Jack in his bedroom, drawing comfort out of each other's company. He can't remember the last time he didn't feel an overwhelming urge to get dressed when someone caught him wearing nothing but a towel. Not that not remembering means anything right now.

"Jeans. Tshirts. That sort of stuff." Jack snorts, as if he didn't believe his ears. "There's got to be some in here, I can't believe I only own suits!" Jack's smile widens, and he smiles back. At least, the suits seem to be immaculately pressed and kept. Jack shifts uncomfortably on the wall, as if he weren't sure whether to move forward and help, or stay where he is. "Please tell me we don't have a formal dress code at work."

"Third drawer on your right." He nods, relieved to find something casual for the morning. "And no, we don't. Although you look good in a suit." Stealing a look at Jack out of the corner of his eye, he can't even begin to imagine what he's going through. He definitely looks like a man used to carrying the weight of the world on his shoulder, he has that same look that his Tad used to have when he was a child and his old man still the hero that could sort everything out. But every kid thinks his father is a superhero at some point, until they grow up and realise parents are just human. Jack has that same aura about him, even to him. He looks like someone that will carry on, regardless of what life throws at him.

"Pyjamas?" He's babbling again, words leaving his mouth before he has a chance to think about it. It feels strange that _somebody else_ knows more about his life than he does. Part of him just wants to go to sleep, hoping he'll wake up in the morning and it will all have been a really bad dream. Part of him knows he'll just wake up to the same emptiness in his head when he looks back.

"No idea." He shoots Jack a questioning look. "You don't wear them much." He turns around, feeling the blush heating his cheeks. Opening yet another drawer at random, he finds some old tshirts and pyjama bottoms. That will do for now. He retreats to the bathroom again, half-closing the door as he slips into his clothes and leaves the towel in the rack again.

All of sudden, it clicks. What he's been seeing in Jack's eyes ever since he woke up. Even though he can't remember, to Jack, he is still his partner. The one he's been living with, judging by the many little things around him. At the very least, the one at whose place he's been spending enough time to justify sort of moving in. That must mean it is... or was... serious. And Jack has lost that as well. On a day where Hell walked on Earth and probably all he needs is some comfort, a drink and a good night of sleep.

With a sigh, he walks back into the room, heads for the bed and starts straightening the covers, wondering once more why, despite not remembering anything, he still feels this _need_ to do something to ease Jack's pain. He shakes his head, trying to think straight.

"What did Johnson's men want with us? Why this mess?" Pushing the covers away, he sits on the edge of the bed. "Were they looking for something?" Jack snort-laughs again, and the sound makes him smile. And wonder how Jack manages to smile after the day he's had.

"They were probably trying to find where else you could be hiding." Jack looks around him, and raises his eyebrows. "Must have found something in your living room, since they didn't make it to the bedroom." He's giving Jack a puzzled look by the time he realises he's moved at all.

"Are you... telling me... this is...?" He gestures around, to the bits of clothing still scattered on the floor despite the ones he's already picked up, the halfway made bed, the general state of everything. Does he really put up with that sort of chaos? Judging by his impeccable dressing and the state of his wardrobe, he had assumed he has a penchant for keeping a place for everything, and everything in its place. Maybe he does, but not all the time.

"Just as we left it." Jack nods, and shadows fall on his face. And there it is again, the haunted look of a man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. The demons. The need to run away from it all. "I should go. I'm sure you need some sleep..." He shakes his head. Suddenly the idea of being here on his own makes him shiver, and not in a good way, even though a moment ago he needed it.

"You really want to be on your own after the day you've had?". In his ears, it sounds to much like admitting _he_ doesn't. Which, come to think about, is true. There's something more than that in the back of his mind, something he can't really focus on. As if part of him were screaming at him, and he couldn't hear what it is saying. Another look at Jack, the tired air around him, gives him the answer. "Not thinking of doing something stupid, are you, Jack? Someone's got to explain all this to me." He aims for lighthearted and misses by a mile.

"It's not like I can die, Ianto." Jack bites his lip the moment the words leave his mouth, in a gesture that makes Ianto want to... he's not sure exactly what. He doesn't want to _think_ about it either, not right now. There's a time and a place for everything. The words slowly sink in, and he _knows_ Jack is not kidding. Closing his eyes, he takes yet another deep breath; hyperventilating doesn't sound like such a bad option today. "I shouldn't have..."

More flashes, and this time one image sticks in his head for long enough: Jack, in his arms, a crimson stain on his chest, gasping for air, hands coming up to grab him, a terrified look in his face. Snatches in time... is that all that remains of his memories? But this...this can't be true. Can it? It couldn't be a fatal shot that Jack recovered from, could it? That would make him... not immortal, but... nearly.

And that would explain why Jack seems to smile down at everybody like a father to his children. He's been around for long enough to see the world in a way others, in their short lifespans, simply cannot.

"I need to know." Barely a whisper, because he doesn't have air for more. "Who I am, what I do, who I care for. Who I love." He looks at Jack, and he's pretty certain he's pleading for something, even if he doesn't know what. Even if he doesn't really want to know what. "I need to remember." Jack takes a few steps, and sits on the corner of the bed. Close, but not quite. Guarded. As if he didn't know how to behave around him, how he will react. Fair enough. He's not even sure himself.

"Lucky." Pain and shadows again. "I need to forget."

"No." Jack raises his head and looks at him, a bit confused, a bit hurt, a bit... lost. "You shouldn't forget. As long as you remember, Steven is alive." Jack lets out a sigh, then nods. Other faces race in his mind, old sepia photographs of people he's sure he's never met, young people that could still be alive and happy out there yet something deep inside tells him are gone as well.

"It's not easy." He can't help a small smile. "Carrying on when everything goes to shit."

"Nobody said it is." Lifting a hand, he pats Jack's shoulder, half wishing Jack will react to hit, half hoping he won't, not really sure which side he wants to be right. When Jack grabs his hand, just like he did earlier, the touch burns and heals at the same time, and it all crashes down on him. Again.

It feel strange to let Jack wrap his arms around him, to fall down on the bed burying his head in Jack's chest and just _feeling_ the warm presence beside him, around him. Closing his eyes, he pushes away the questions, the many things that he knows he will have to adjust to. He tries not to think, lets his body take over and relax. He's holding on to Jack as if he were the only lifeline in the middle of the storm he's caught in. And, as much as it freaks him out, he's just not ready to let go. Just as good that neither is Jack, by the look of it.

Some time later, Jack tries to pull the covers over them; it takes a bit of reshuffling and moving, yet neither of them pulls away. Jack brings a finger to his lips when he tries to speak, so he just moves closer. It feels right. He'll deal with the rest in the morning.

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	4. Rewind and Replay

He wakes up with a gasp, not knowing where he is. It takes a moment until it all comes rushing back: the confusion, the uncertainties, the awkwardness. Part of him wants to curl away from it all and pretend it is nothing more than a nightmare, but he's not in the mood to delude himself. Sooner or later, he'll have to face the world out there. Might as well be today.

He tries to roll out of bed, thinking of a cup of tea and maybe some toast – his stomach is grumbling as if he hadn't eaten in a week, but the arm draped around his waist holds him where he is. He could easily sneak out, but it feels like the only real thing in all this mess, so he stays. Jack is a warm presence behind him. It feels oddly familiar.

He traces the hand with light fingers, ignoring the gaps in his memories, and even that gut feeling that tells him this is right. It no longer matters whether he _could_ remember, because he doesn't want to. He snorts at the irony. A few hours away he was desperate to find out everything about his past, to recover it as much as possible. It doesn't seem so important right now. He needs to move on, look forward and carry on. He can't spend his life crying over past memories.

"You are awake." A soft whisper in his ear. He nods. Jack moves closer, and his breath hitches when the arm wraps tighter around him. The question of whether to stay or get up barely enters his mind before it is filed away. "Ianto, I..." Hesitation. Something tells him Captain Harkness doesn't often hesitate. "I wish I could do something to help you remember. I know what it is. Waking up to missing memories." He's about to retort back, but something in Jack's voice keeps him silent. "I lost two years."

"When?" Will Jack answer? He doesn't seem the type to talk about himself. Judging by the way Alice and Gwen moved around him, he's probably hiding more secrets than anybody is even aware of. But Gwen seemed to think _he_ could get answers from Jack even when nobody else could.

"A long time ago. When I was somebody else." He bites his lip. That's exactly how this feels, as if he were living someone else's life. His own life, but as alien and as different as childhood seems to an adult. It explains why Jack was so shocked when he broke the news, but at the same time took it in his stride as if losing one's memories was the most natural thing in the world.

"Did it change you?" Jack pauses for a second, as if considering his answer, hand idly tracing patterns on his stomach. He swallows. His body remembers too much. Or maybe just enough. He stirs just a little, Jack's breath warm on the back of his neck.

"Yeah." He turns around and pillows his head on Jack's arm, bringing the covers up, hiding from the faint rays of light already coming through the window. So much for facing the world today. Part of him just wants to hide here.

"For the better." Not a question. He doesn't need to ask. He's seen enough. Others may think Captain Harkness cruel, cold, drastic. He's seen the other side of the coin. He's seen the man collapse under the consequences of his actions. He's seem him curse and hate himself. He's just a man who does what needs to be done. Jack nods.

"I'd like to think so."

"Not so bad, then." Silence settles. He shuffles a couple of times, trying to find a comfortable position. It's too warm under the covers, but he doesn't want to move. He sneaks a hand over Jack's waist, wondering how many times before they have hidden from the world like this, pretending nothing mattered outside of the bed, if only for a few hours. Something tells him Torchwood doesn't allow for comfortable weekend breaks and 25 days annual leave, including a week at Christmas.

"I should walk out of your life." There it is again, the resignation, the bitter acceptance of loneliness. "Before I destroy it like I have done with everybody else's." Jack tries to move away; he grabs him before he realises what he's doing, pulling him closer. "I'm a monster, Ianto. You've seen what I've done."

"Save every child on the planet, I am told." He hopes Jack won't notice the tremor in his voice. He may not know Jack, but be damned if he's going to let him walk away without having the chance to get to know him again. He has a life to rebuild, and a feeling that Jack is one of the important pieces in it.

"By killing one." One child. His own grandson. By losing his own daughter in the process, betraying her in the most brutal way. Who would do that? The truth hits him as hard as a head-on crash against a wall. A man that runs out of options. He can't help but wonder if that is the story of Jack's life, always out of options, always forced to one course of action because there was nothing else he could do.

"There was no other way." Just a whisper. Something tells him that, deep inside, Jack knows it is true, but will still blame himself for it all. As if he alone was meant to stop all the evils in the world, and failure were not an option.

"You don't know that!" Jack doesn't raise his voice, but it sounds like a scream in his ears. Because Jack is right, he doesn't. He has no idea who he is, who Jack is, or why they are in the situation they are in. Other than the strange feeling of familiarity with it all, with the fucked-up communication, the half spoken truths and the warmth of a presence, he has nothing to go by. For all he knows, Jack could be responsible for his memory loss. He could be the monster he says he is. But he doesn't believe that for a second.

"Was there?" Jack doesn't reply, sticking to a stubborn silence that seems to be a trademark of the house. "Was there?" Demanding. There's a hint of surprise on Jack's face, as if he hadn't expected such defiance.

"No." It takes much huffing and biting of lips before Jack replies, and when he does, it is the voice of a man who thinks he doesn't deserve the compassion he's being given.

"You did what had to be done." The tired sigh in Jack's voice tells him they have had this conversation before. Countless times, by the sound of it. "If you want to hide from it, and tell yourself you are a monster, go ahead. Hit yourself on the head with it." He raises an eyebrow, surprised with his own outburst. "But you are not."

What would be more effective to make Jack react, smacking him on the head or kissing the living lights out of him? Not that he wants to, does he? Well, maybe not the smacking. He swallows hard. A hand comes up to his cheek, thumb tracing his jaw, and his body seems to recognize the touch because he leans into it without thinking. It is... electric and soft and he wants more and wants to run away from it, all at the same time. How many times have they shared a bed, drawing comfort of each other, pushing dark memories away? How many good times has he forgotten? How much bad stuff is now out of the table?

"I will get you killed in the end, Ianto." He can hear the tears. "I could have lost you today." What can he say to that? Torchwood doesn't seem to be a job where people reach retirement age. And that is an outsider's perspective – he's not sure he wants to know the exact figures. "Everybody around me ends up dead. Those that stay, those that try to run away from me. All of them."

"Maybe you should stop thinking about that, and make the most of what you have." Jack snickers, fingers moving on his neck, tentative. He shivers as they find a spot right below where the collar or a shirt would sit. When his brain reminds him he should still be freaked out by all of this, he kindly tells it to shut up.

"Are you sure you've lost your memories?" He gives Jack a puzzled look in the half-light. "You said that yesterday. The day before yesterday, actually." Ianto snorts. Well, some things never change. He read somewhere that some people suffering from amnesia still retain certain peculiar behaviours, even likes and dislikes.

"Yet you won't listen." There it is, the exasperated sigh again. Yes, Jack may have had this conversation before, but he hasn't.

"I've lost too much." He presses a finger to Jack's lips, keeping him quiet.

"Time to stop looking back, Jack." Jack nods, tightens his grip on him, and closes his eyes. And, for a moment, he just lies there, enjoying the moment, the rhythm of Jack's breath and heartbeat, the warmth of the bed, the silence.

Then, a mobile rings. He swears. Loudly. In Welsh. Which, incidentally, he didn't know he speaks.

"Are you going to get that or what?" It isn't until Jack speaks that he realises the phone may be his. He cringes at the ringtone. He _really_ has to change it. With a tired sigh, he sneaks out of Jack's arms; the air feels chilli against his skin as he reaches for the mobile and crawls back under the covers.

"What if it is someone I don't remember?" Jack, propped up on an elbow, grabs his hand and twists it a bit so he can see the number, and pulls a face.

"It's Gwen." Great. Just what he needs right now. With a sigh, he answers. He doesn't want to talk to anybody just yet, but something tells him she'll keep calling if he lets it go to to voicemail. After some fiddling with the menus, he puts the call on speakerphone.

"Hello?"

"Ianto, hi!" She sounds nervous. "Could you tell Jack I will be down at the Hub in a couple of hours? We need to start rebuilding as soon as possible. You never know what is about to come down on us, and it will take time before we are up and running again..." A pregnant pause, as if he were supposed to say something.

"Wouldn't it be better if you called Jack, if you want to talk to him?" Jack makes that face again, a cross between a snort and a frown that he doesn't quite know how to interpret. Gwen was angry when she walked away from Jack last night, but surely she won't hold it against him for long.

"Jack is with you, isn't he?" She pauses again, and Ianto can just picture her biting her lower lip. Why can he remember her and all those little quirks, yet he's got nothing more than a few snatches of Jack? "He hasn't disappeared again, has he? Ianto, please, tell me he's there." There's more than a hint of worry in her voice as he babbles away.

"Gwen." She doesn't seem to hear him. "Gwen." Silence. "He is here, don't worry." There's a sigh of relief on the other side of the line. He shoots Jack a questioning look, but he just shrugs, dismissing the topic. "I'll tell him. We'll be there."

He's barely hung up when Jack breaks into a bitter laugh and falls back onto the bed, hand behind his head, eyes lost in the ceiling. He pulls the covers closer as he leans back on the headboard, eyes still on a stubbornly silent Jack.

"Is she always like that?" He blurts the question after what feels like hours but can't be more than a few minutes. Jack gives him a small, tired smile, and takes a moment before he answer. When he does, his voice is barely a whisper.

"Stubborn? Yeah. Angry at me, quite often." Jack turns around, lying on his side, and brings a hand to his waist. He swallows nervously. Even through his clothes, he can feel the heat. "But I think it is the first time she doesn't even want to talk to me." What can he say? 'She will come around'? 'She isn't really angry, just needs time to process things'? All seem empty and strangely meaningless.

So he just moves forward, until his lips meet Jack's, not quite sure about _what_ he is doing but pretty certain at least he knows _why_ he is doing it. Jack seems to stir back to life at the touch and kisses back, the initial gentleness soon becoming needy and sloppy and messy. It's nothing like the few kisses he sort of remembers. Jack's stubble rasps against his skin, strong arms close around him. And he's drowning on it. Until Jack pulls back, hand firmly on his chest to keep him at a distance.

"Why?" Jack's breath is ragged, and he's not entirely sure what he is asking. Why does he trust him? Why does he care for him? Why is he kissing him like there's no tomorrow and nothing else in the world is important?

"Does it matter?" He doesn't let Jack protest about it again. When he kisses him this time, Jack doesn't pull away.

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	5. Rebuilding

When they arrive at the Plass, having parked the oversized SUV in a nearby car park, Gwen is already there, walking along the police line cordoning off the wreckage, stopping to talk to the PCs dotted along it. Still a few metres away, he stops, hand on his hips, running a hand through his hair. Jack takes a few more steps before he notices he's no longer at his side and turns around, a half smile on his face.

"Nervous?" He shoots him a glare – frown or surprise, he's not sure which. "You always do that when you are nervous." A bit self-conscious, he hides both hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Works much better with jeans and tshirt, I have to admit." There's a moment of silence as Jack walks back to him.

"I..." Where to start? "I'm not sure I should be here. I don't even know what I'm doing!" He swallows. He seems to be doing that a lot, not knowing what he's doing. He'll have to watch it or he'll made a career of it.

"You're helping rebuild Torchwood." Jack pats his shoulder. "You'll be okay." For a moment, he believes Jack, as he watches him walk towards the water tower, a huge grin on his face as he puts on the Captain Harkness nothing-can-stop me façade.

Gwen rushes towards Jack when she sees him, slowing as she approaches him, maybe remembering she's still angry at him. Still a few metres behind, he watches as Jack opens his arms, and Gwen collapses the moment he holds her, tears streaming down her face. He's too far away to hear what they are saying; yet, he finds himself considering the irony of Jack, who a few hours ago was crumbling to pieces himself, being the one comforting her. Jack's words in the car echo in his head: 'It's what we do, holding the world together.'

When he eventually joins them and clears his throat Gwen jumps out of Jack's arms with a slightly guilty look on her face. He nearly rolls his eyes. Jack idly kicks the ground, eyes lost in the devastation beyond the police tape. It must be yet another blow for him; he must have seen this place grow over his years at Torchwood.

"So, where do we start?" He gives them both a small smile, hoping that Gwen won't notice that he's bluffing the way through it all. The last thing he needs right now is a dotting colleague. And something tells him she _is_ the dotting type.

"Phones." He shoots Gwen and enquiring look as he fishes his out of his pocket. She shrugs and brings her out of her jacket. "First thing we need is funding. And a lot of people in a lot of high places owe us. Big time. And I think it is time we remind them." Jack is positively beaming now, as if the task of starting from scratch didn't seem like a daunting impossibility. "Gwen, call U.N.I.T, see if you can get Martha to speak to someone for us; if you can't, let me know, and I'll bring out the big guns."

Jack turns to him, eyes boring into his, and once again he pushes away the questions, the unknowns.

"Ianto. Whitehall. Frobisher is gone, or so Johnson said; we are going to have to go above him." He nods as Jack thrusts a piece of paper in his hand. "All the way to whoever is running the show right now. Maybe even remind them about the many hours of interesting recordings we have." Great. First day back on the job and he's already blackmailing people.

"And that leaves you with?" Gwen is tapping keys absent-mindedly as she shoots Jack an enquiring look.

"Buckingham." Ianto can feel his jaw drop to the floor. Buckingham? As in...?

"Buckingham _Palace_?" Gwen beats him to it. Jack laughs, and, for a moment, it isn't an empty sound. He shakes his head in disbelief.

"Torchwood exists by Royal Prerogative. Did you kids miss the whole 'accountable only to the Crown' bit in your induction packs?" Gwen shoots him yet another annoyed look. "Oh, right. No induction packs yet. Anyway. I think it's about time Her Majesty gave us a hand in all this mess, don't you think?" With a wink, Jack walks away, phone already on his ear. With a sigh, Ianto takes a few steps away from Gwen, carefully dialling the number on the paper.

"Hello. Ianto Jones, Torchwood." It sounds weird. It feels weird. But it rolls off his tongue as if he had really said it a million times before. He takes a deep breath and launches into the speech that has been forming in his head since Jack mentioned 'phones'. Thankfully none of the three 'Personal Assistants' he talks to asks too many question. Maybe Jack was right. Maybe it'll all be all right in the end. At least for now.

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